


An Extended Sex Metaphor

by deadonarrival



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Driving, M/M, No Porn, just car porn, obsessive information about cars, overeducated blowhard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadonarrival/pseuds/deadonarrival
Summary: Jim might have a little bit of a thing for going fast and causing trouble, something McCoy is well aware of. It should keep him from calling shotgun but when he sees that look in Jim's eyes it's tough to say no. But he may still throw up on you.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts).



There's a tingling sensation underneath the tips of his fingers as he drags them over the slick paint job; a deep seamless black. Things have changed since the last time he was here, but despite the differences, similarities resonate in his core. The farmhouse is still a clapped-together bystander in a cliche field amidst a hundred others. He's fairly certain they've been penned a thousand times and always in the same words: rolling, dramatic, endless. To him, they are liquid, an ocean of vegetation, still cliche, still as misery-inducing as they were ten years ago. 

"I can't believe we're going out 'cruising' like a couple of antsy teenagers--"

McCoy’s voice is muted against the open space and the breeze seems to twist his words out and away from Jim. He glances at him over the roof of the ride and shrugs, calling something back that Bones can't hear; then they both shrug, laugh a little and duck into the car. Jim has a moment of reverent appreciation as he looks over the interior, all outfitted with the newest technology behind a retrofit body. It's a collision of two different worlds and ideas: old majestic power, new insurmountable beauty. There's talking, of which Kirk only hears the middle:

"-restoring cars, it's kind of an excessive cost but I suppose the end result-" 

He nods along with McCoy’s words and loses them in ignition. He almost smirks when the engine lights up under his touch and though he would never trade that shiny new starship for anything, he has a brief illusion of doubt. He glances over at McCoy, who's gone quiet and they share a look. Jim is electric wires gone live and McCoy is a copper conductor. He sees the hit before it happens, knows exactly what Jim feels and he's helpless to change the outcome, all he can do is inhale and hope for the best.

The engine revs under the pressure applied and Jim exhales slow as the wheels catch and almost burn on the ground. There's a high whine and then it's all in the execution of the thing: valves open, the crankshaft turns, pistons move up and down, the spark plugs fire and there's that explosion of perfect energy only present with internal combustion engines. There's no replacement for American muscle; the competition is intense when compared to Italian luxury, German dominance, Swedish safety, French eco-centric fastidious design and function, Japanese economy. Though, at the end of the day the unique experience lies not in any of these, but with the simple American car. A lot of what it offers is on the surface; it doesn't necessarily have the mystery of it's foreign cousins, but it's all heart. The other part of it's branded identity is that it's uniquely ... well.. American: abrasive, arrogant, domineering... maybe it's why Jim still enjoys a classic; he can relate. 

The V8 roars into motion and McCoy digs his fingers into the armrest and console with a whispered, _"Jesus Christ,"_ while Jim hums an amen. They're praying to different Gods; Bones to one of protection and Kirk to one of benevolence but no prayer goes unanswered as they're propelled past the safety of what constitutes the driveway. 

Jim fishtails as they hit loose dirt and laughs as the tires frantically search for purchase. Dust billows around the vehicle before the front wheels dig down and they leap frog out and tear down a stretch of old abandoned road. 

The ground licks against the rubber of the tires like flame but inevitably gives way and Jim thinks of flying. 

The soft restored leather of the seats is just firm enough that it pushes back against Jim’s weight and contours to his body as the force of moving forward makes him lean back and relax. The muscles that were tense and stiff in his neck and shoulders go slack and he feels the wheel vibrate with raw energy underneath his fingers. 

He loosens the grip and listens as McCoy makes a strangled sound next to him, of anger, of fear, of anything and nothing all at once; and so Jim reaches out and puts a hand on his thigh and ghosts his other palm over the center of the wheel and swears he hears the engine exhale. 

It's a roaring sound, with everything firing and opening and blowing up on the acceleration and Jim feels his heart rate go up and his breathing turn to a slow burn. The road ahead turns and curves and with McCoy next to him practically praying the rosary, Jim puts both hands on the wheel and lets go. The deceleration is minimal so he brakes just enough to maintain and hugs the inside line. 

"Oh my _God_ -" 

Jim breathes out and closes his eyes for just long enough to really enjoy it. The short hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the car slides on the follow-through and he can feel the back end bury so he jumps; hits the gas and he swears his heart takes a pause so that he can feel every shudder, every hum that rocks through the suspension as the front wheels find the road and he's rocketing forward. There's something almost symphonic about tuning into the car's sounds. The way the engine lifts and soars, opening up under the pressure of the gas pedal; the light grind down as the gears shift on the automatic transmission and the purr of a well tuned mechanical wet dream. The whole scenario plays out so fast he can't savor it afterwards but for the briefest of moments he remembers the first time he heard the Hallelujah Chorus of Handel's Messiah and the way it raised goosebumps all over his body; that's how he feels now. He feels spiritual, reckless, unholy and blissfully perfect. It's not as good as being on the bridge but when he's this close to the power source it's a different level of high. 

He feels the definition of drunk traverse his veins and when it hits his heart he thinks of _Joy to the World_ and the pedal hits the floor. 

Prepared for the jolt, he rolls his shoulders back into the seat and the leather that's warmed with his body temperature has just a little extra give. He sinks back and shifts his knees apart to slide down and still accommodate the wheel. Jim listens and feels heat pool in the base of his spine in much the same way as when he's in bed and hitting his stride right before the end. He glances over to McCoy who looks on the verge of cardiac arrest and just to make him feel alive, Jim lets go of the wheel and coasts on good fortune while McCoy gives him a look that kills. 

So Jim starts at the bottom, fingers caressing the wrapped wheel all the way to ten and two before he curls them around and smiles as the power radiates back at him. He takes just a minute to himself, has a faded dream that winks at him in sepia tones and plays like a warped polaroid picture. He thinks of misspent youth and Sunday morning and glances out of the corner of his eye at McCoy. It humbles him enough that he drops the accelerator and listens to the engine growl down to Acceptable Bones Levels and when he breezes into five over the limit he waits for the onslaught, the 'what the fuck were you thinking's' and countless other -isms that are no doubt lurking just under the semi-collected surface of Dr. Leonard H McCoy. 

The car slows, and as they draw to a stop, Jim feels his heart beat louder and yet slower until there's that cool metallic ting with a hiss of let off pressure as they idle in the Middle of Nowhere. He rests one hand on the shifter and tries not to jump when he feels McCoy’s hand over his, engaging the car into 'park'. 

"You're crazy," Bones mutters the words as Jim takes what he hopes is a hint and unbuckles his seatbelt to lean over the console and force his way into McCoy’s space with a sly smile playing over his lips. 

"You like it," he accuses. 

This time, McCoy smirks as he leans in to seal the deal, "maybe I love it."


End file.
